


Enfermo

by WaitingForMy



Series: A Bored Author Begs for One-Shot Requests [11]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bilingual Spot Conlon, Davey belongs to the church of Pedialyte water and so do I, M/M, Spot thinks and talks to himself in Spanish, davey is a good boyfriend, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26059465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitingForMy/pseuds/WaitingForMy
Summary: Request: Hi, could I request a modern era Spot sickfic where Davey has to look after Spot but Spot is being difficult about having the flu? All "Nah, I'm fine" about it, even though he really isn't!
Relationships: Spot Conlon/David Jacobs
Series: A Bored Author Begs for One-Shot Requests [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704226
Comments: 20
Kudos: 41





	Enfermo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Firecracker_Newsie (Enjolras_The_Survivor)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjolras_The_Survivor/gifts).



> A small amount of this is in Spanish. I’ll put some translations in the end notes, pero si no hablas español, it would probably be more convenient to pull up a translator on another tab.
> 
> Spot forgetting what language he’s supposed to be speaking in is based on my own dumb self.

He first thought Spot had upon waking up was, ‘ _ Ah, mierda. Estoy enfermo, y Davey tenía razón. Otra vez. Y nunca va a dejarme olvidarlo, _ ’ followed by, ‘ _ Ah, mierda. Tengo que ir al trabajo. _ ’ He groaned loudly and dragged himself out of bed, stopping for a moment as the room started spinning. “Mierda,” he muttered to himself, “mierda, mierda.”

It took him a little longer than usual to get dressed, despite pushing himself moment to moment to move faster. He didn’t want to be late, but the pounding in his skull, like a little elf with a sledgehammer was in there trying to break free, made it rather difficult to focus. He threw on a pair of old jeans and plain white tank top under his open uniform shirt, then headed into the kitchen, grabbing a banana for breakfast on his way through to the front door.

“Where are you going?” asked Davey. Spot hadn’t noticed him sitting on the couch in the living room, reading a book, but there he was, smirking as he turned the page.

“To work,” Spot said.

“No, you’re not.”

Spot huffed. “I’m fine, Davey. I’m not too sick to go to work.”

“Mm, let me explain.” Davey carefully folded over the corner of the page he was on and closed his book before looking up at Spot. “You’re not going to work, because it’s Tuesday.”

Spot knit his eyebrows in confusion. “It’s…”

“Tuesday,” Davey repeated. “Martes.”

“El martes,” Spot sighed, then muttered under his breath, “No trabajo los martes.” Davey smiled, and Spot made his walk of shame into the living room and sat next to Davey on the couch. “Okay, so I lost track of the days. That doesn’t mean I’m sick.”

Davey quirked an eyebrow.

“I mean it!” Spot went on. “I’m fine!”

“You know how I know you’re sick?” Davey asked. “You’re speaking Spanish at me, and I don’t even think you realize it.”

“I am not—” Spot stopped short and his eyes widened as he  _ heard _ ‘no estoy’ come out of his mouth, and Davey snickered. Spot pouted. “I’m just tired.”

“Then you won’t mind if I take your temperature, just to be safe.”

Davey set his book down on the coffee table, stood up, and headed for the kitchen. Spot rolled his eyes and dragged his fingers through his hair. He felt like shit, that was for sure, but he point-blank refused to give Davey the satisfaction.

Davey returned moments later with the thermometer and held it in front of Spot’s mouth. “Open.”

“I’m not a ba—” Spot made an affronted noise as Davey shoved the thermometer in his mouth mid-sentence.

“I’m done playing these games with you, Spot,” he said. “You’re sick, and you need to act like it—take some medicine, get some rest. You’re never gonna get better if you don’t.”

Spot grumbled nonsense around the thermometer, then huffed when it beeped loudly, indicating that he did, in fact, have a fever.

“One hundred and one,” Davey said, not unlike he was accusing Spot of cheating on him or something. “Go put your pajamas back on. I’ll mix you some Pedialyte water.”

Spot knew there was no use arguing. Davey might as well have belonged to the church of Pedialyte water, and he made one hell of a missionary. Spot slowly stood and made his way back into the bedroom to change, and by the time he returned to the couch, there was a glass of purple Pedialyte water and a couple tablets of ibuprofen on the coffee table.

“I’m going to work tomorrow,” Spot grumbled as he popped the tablets into his mouth.

Davey, who was milling around the kitchen, responded, “I will call your boss and tell him you have the flu, and you’re willing to put her and all your coworkers at risk—”

Spot sighed and laid down on the couch, burying his head under a decorative pillow.

Davey arrived a minute later and gently pulled the pillow away. “I have to get to class.  _ Please _ rest.”

“Okay, okay.”

He kissed Spot’s forehead and started towards the door. Spot watched him as he left, then dutifully laid down on the couch.

* * *

Bossy, stuck-up, boring, square—Davey had been called all these things and more. He tried not to be such a hardass, but it was hard when the only other option was watching Spot push himself to death.

Davey sighed and pulled up his Duolingo app while waiting for his food order to be ready. He had stopped at the deli down the block on his way home from class, because he knew Spot loved their chicken soup, and god knew the man could use some chicken soup. Davey paused his speaker and microphone and typed his way through a few exercises.

‘ _ Mi sombrero verde es más pequeño que el azul _ .’ My green hat is smaller than the blue one.

‘ _ I found an old letter on my desk _ .’ Encontré una carta vieja en mi escritorio.

“Order for David?”

He picked up the soup, then walked the rest of the way back to their apartment. He was genuinely surprised to find Spot asleep on the couch, when he got back.

Surprise quickly gave way to concern. Spot must have been feeling really poorly to actually throw in the towel and rest. Davey left the soup in the kitchen and made his way into the living room, where he crouched down in front of the couch and laid the back of his hand on Spot’s forehead—cool and damp, he noted with some relief. His fever had broken.

Spot stirred, whining sleepily and turning his face away from Davey’s hand.

“Shh,” Davey cooed softly. “Go back to sleep.”

“Creo que tengo gripe,” Spot mumbled. He often reverted to Spanish when he was really tired or distracted, and although it could be inconvenient on occasion, Davey always found it charming. Spot cracked his eyes open. “Ah, fuck. I mean—”

“You think you have the flu. I got it.” Davey smiled. “For what it’s worth, I agree.”

Spot sighed, shifting to get more comfortable. “Te adoro. You’re the worst.”

Davey snickered as he stood up and headed back towards the kitchen. “Don’t get too comfy. I brought you chicken soup from Jacobi’s.”

“Fuuuuuck, let’s get married.”

Davey snickered some more and returned with the soup and a spoon. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Yeah, a little.” Spot sat up and accepted the soup. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. De nada.” Davey sat next to him and gently rubbed his back. “Call out of work tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay. You win.”

Davey smiled, relieved. “Thank you. Do you need more Pedialyte water?”

Spot made a face at him. “You just sat down?”

“I’ll make you some more Pedialyte water,” Davey decided, standing up again.

**Author's Note:**

> Pedialyte water = Pedialyte mixed with water because it’s super syrupy on its own, seriously the best thing ever when you’re sick
> 
> Mierda = Shit
> 
> Estoy enfermo, y Davey tenía razón. Otra vez. Y nunca va a dejarme olvidarlo = Ah, shit. I’m sick, and Davey was right. Again. And he’s never gonna let me forget it.
> 
> Tengo que ir al trabajo = I have to go to work.
> 
> No trabajo los martes = I don’t work on Tuesdays.
> 
> Creo que tengo gripe = I think I have the flu.
> 
> Te adoro = I love/adore you.


End file.
